Riding the Rails to Hell and Back
by Beautiful Bounty
Summary: (OOCAU) If one loses his memory to the flames of Hell, where does that leave his body? Is it possible for him to gain a new life in the face of loss; should he keep that life if the old one is presented again to him? Rated R for: Language, theme, distur


_Small room, full of smoke; oh god—I can't move! Oh god! Have to get out; have to! Help! Help, someone! Oh god; oh god, I'm going to die! This is how I'm going to die! My lungs, it burns everything burns, oh god someone Allah anyone HELP! Soot in my eyes, my nose, my mouth—oh Christ, everything tastes like death; have I been a good person have I been a bad person oh Jesus please somebody for the love of all things sacred and holy HELP! Oh god oh god my friends my family what am I going to do who will tell them I'm dead why didn't I tell everyone I loved them this one last time why is my only regret oh god oh god I can smell the fuel and my flesh and I smell bacon, this is some kind of sin it has to be oh god oh god oh—_

Red, orange, and yellow painted the scene; the colors writhing and twisting in some suggestive and macabre dance. The background was black, so black; every time he reached his hands out to brush away the darkness there was only another layer blacker still. The skin around his nails was peeling away, the nails giving way to shining rivers of blood and perhaps even a hint of bone. Agony didn't begin to describe this nightmare feeling, this jaunt into the belly of Hell. He couldn't remember what he was doing before going to Hell; there was a sense of weightlessness; talking to someone who sounded stern but he knew better than to get ruffled. Then a whistling noise, and suddenly his world was nothing but soot and fire and pain and he wasn't sure if he wanted to die or not because he wasn't sure what was better.

It must be his own death he was witnessing, because there was a rustle and a sudden burst of cool air washing over him and he could smell sunlight and grass and freshly-laundered linens. He opened his eyes (or maybe they were already open because his eyelids had burnt away) and saw the angel from the top of a Christmas tree from long ago; her hair was a wavy mass of red fire and her bright green eyes were cool and calm like the waters of the Caribbean. Her moist pink lips were moving; if she was talking, he wasn't hearing it (his eardrums had probably melted while he was in Hell) but he felt freed at last and that was the part that mattered most…

_Floating…floating…it's like Space, this floating feeling…I can't feel anything…I think my brain has melted and is leaking out my eyes…maybe…I don't know…so hard to think; at least the soot's gone. Thank you Allah, Jesus, God; everyone is one and the same, no matter whose eyes You're seen through. Where are the angels? Where is my mother? If I'm dead and in Heaven, where are my mother and my lost friends? I can't be in Hell anymore because nothing hurts…maybe this is that Purgatory thing the Catholics go on about…it's not so bad in Purgatory; sure an eternity of floating around doing nothing seems bad, but it feels so good after Hell; of course, I thought you went to Purgatory first…Hell; I'm rambling. I'm gonna spend all of eternity rambling too…but at least there's no soot here in Purgatory…_

Consciousness was fleeting; nothing more than a series of rapid impressions of sensation. Maybe these bouts happened once a day, or maybe there were years in between. He had no way of keeping check, because one of the angels had taken the calendar out of the room very early on. Maybe she thought it'd be depressing for him to watch months and years skip by. She was an older woman; probably one of the first ones God made. It was nice though, to be cared for. He could remember being taken care of before, when he was much smaller…if only he could remember who it was who had done the nurturing…his mother maybe? No; there was a sense of loss attached to that word…no…he could not remember!

Abigail finished wiping out the rest of the pint glasses, and tossed the bar towel into the bin next to the sink. She looked over her shoulder towards the back room, where the young man was. She worried for him so; when Peter (her brother) had come streaking into the bar to tell of a burning mummy he had found out in the fields, nearly the whole damn town had gone running to investigate. The young man had been alive then, screaming prayers to a god she didn't recognize in a tongue she couldn't place. She didn't know who he was; no one did. He had been so badly hurt in the crash that there would be no way for anyone to know who he was until he got well enough to tell someone.

She looked around the bar, checking for potential customers or the queen nag herself (her mother). The place was empty; she was free to go back and change his bandages. The doctor had said he needed his bandages changed every few hours…the blisters on what little skin was left on his body wept so terribly! Abigail had gotten over her revulsion quick, and it was damn merciful she had; even her mother, who had done field surgery during the wars, couldn't stomach the smell and the noise of those pus-soaked bandages.

"I'm comin' in sir." She whispered softly as she slid through the partially open door. She did her best to close it quietly; the doctor had warned that the young man's ears were sensitive to everything, sound and touch alike. "It's time to be changin' yer bandages." Abigail pulled the box of gauze and tape from the shelves next to the bed where the strange young man lay. She pulled on one of the surgical masks the doctor had left (him being deathly afraid the boy would catch ill or rot from the world) and some of the plastic gloves. Then she set to work. "If ye remember yesterday, ye remember me tellin' ya that Miss Lucy's darlin' daughter is droppin' out to marry that damn McPherson boy; well I heard tell at the market today that she's clicked with a baby and that's why there's such a rush." Abigail gossiped quietly, cutting away the bandages on the boy's arm. She breathed deeply as she pulled the bandages away, wincing as strips of flesh came with them. She was smelling for gangrene; the doctor had said if she smelled almonds or something almost citrus-y to come and get him right off. It was bad enough the boy was so burned he couldn't be recognized by a mother; to lose a limb or three was enough to shoot him out of mercy. Abigail didn't know if he could feel what she was doing, as snowed-under as he was, but she talked anyway; even if he wasn't completely awake, it might be a better comfort to have someone talk while they changed bandages then to just be re-bandaged and left alone. "Her pap's been down here every night, drainin' kegs and demandin' fights. Mum's had to throw him out on most occasions; he's so angry he can't even pass out."

It was such slow work, changing the stranger's bandages. He was wrapped up better than ol' King Tutu in the British Museum, and every single blessed bandage had to be redressed…so she talked…and she talked…and she talked. Sometimes she got so caught up in telling the stranger of the daily life in town that she didn't get to bed until almost dawn's break. It was alright though; because she had taken on nursing duty, her mum had given her some lee-way on missing her shifts.

The surprise came when she was putting the bag of used bandages in another plastic bag to be wrapped up and tossed in the incinerator. There was a sound like wind skirting across sand, and at first Abigail dismissed it. Then it became a persistent drone, accompanied by a shrill whine. She looked to the stranger, and dropped the garbage as she watched the bandages around his mouth move ever so slightly.

"…ter…"

"Say what?" Abigail put her ear right over his mouth.

"…wa…ter…"

She jumped back. "Right away." She said with a nod, dashing out the door and back to the bar. With one hand she filled a pitcher; with the other she clanged the alarm bell near the cash register.

Peter was the first one down the stairs; her mother was next, brandishing a bat.

"WHERE'S THE DIRTY THIEF!" she bellowed. "I'll crack him a good'un I will!"

Abigail shook her head. "No thief; Peter, I need you to run fetch the doctor now."

"Why; is the mummy dying?" he asked with all the morbid curiosity an 11-year-old could muster.

"No, he's talking. Go now, before I throw you out." Abigail ordered, grabbing a glass and the pitcher. Her mother followed her back into the stranger's room.

He felt bad, for not knowing what-all the angel had said. She talked so much and his ears were working so badly that he missed most of what she said. He tried to focus though; he really tried. Not just out of polite behavior however; when the angel pull his skin off and cleaned underneath and put new skin on, it hurt. It hurt so very much, and he was so very dry, all over. Even as his skin peeled away in big wet clumps, he felt so dry. He wondered if he could get some water. Apparently he had been thinking out loud because the angel had said 'right away' or something like that and run out of the room. Then she returned with a lake in her hands, and she began piping the water first up a waterfall she held in her hands, and then dripping it slowly (so agonizingly slow) onto his lips. It was so amazing…

He must've blacked out while the angel was feeding him waterfalls, because suddenly God was standing over him, and God seemed to have affected spectacles and a stethoscope. God's wicked sense of humor was further proved to him when God started poking and prodding him and checking his skin. He didn't understand why his skin was so white, or why God was double-checking what the angel had done; she was an excellent, excellent nurse. Then he blacked out again…

The scenery had changed while he was in and out of life; the light that had come through the tiny window in the room went from pale and soft like spring, to hard and perpetual like summer, to dim and cool like fall. Over that time, the white skin had been pulled away and left off, and his own normal pink skin was back. There were terrible scars up and down his arms, cutting thick ropes into his flesh. The worst part was, there was no mirror and he could not remember his name.

The angels wouldn't let him have a mirror, or any shiny glass really. Maybe they were worried about his vanity; he had already decided his ego wasn't worth it after seeing his arms—if his face was only half as bad; he'd consider himself beautiful and lucky.

One day, he found himself in a nauseatingly familiar surrounding. The ugly off-white whiles, bad floor job, and persistent smell of pine-fresh disinfectant meant only one thing; he was in a hospital. It was funny, that he could remember how much he hated hospitals and needles and bedpans, but not his name. Hospitals were so damn lonely; he didn't see his first two angels hardly ever. If they were coming, they were coming while he was asleep.

There was so much pain to be had; apparently he had spent a good part of the year (yes, he had spent spring and most of summer in that state of pitiful delirium) under the delicious influence of narcotics. He had to wean off that just as he was starting physical therapy for every part of his body and the surgeries to try and make him less frightening. He'd sucked it up though, and gotten over it. Some things just weren't worth fighting…

It wasn't until the next spring that he saw his angels up close and personal. Leaning heavily on a cane, but walking on his feet at least, he found himself in front of the hospital, discharge papers in hand and the doctor gingerly patting him on the shoulder and telling him to keep up the good work. It occurred to him that he didn't know where to go or what he was going to do, when an old green pick-up truck came rumbling up to the curb.

Sitting up front was the older angel he remembered seeing, and a young boy. In the back; oh, in the flat bed of that truck…his angel; his glorious wonderful talkative red-headed angel of sweet, sweet mercy.

"Oy there; ye look as though you've swallowed yer tongue. That's not good for your health." She had said with a grin as she jumped out.

The only thing he could do was stare dumbly; what else was he going to do, since he didn't know her name…or his.

"The docs said you had some pretty serious amnesia, so I don't expect ye to remember us too well." The girl gestured to the two sitting in the cab. "I'd like ye to meet me mam, Gloria and me brother Petie. Petie was the one who found ye that first day."

"Don't call me Petie dammit!" the boy said, sulking.

The older woman tapped him upside the head. "You're not old enough to say 'dammit'." She smiled genially.

He noticed her red hair, though striking, wasn't as wavy as her daughter's. It was shot through with gray, and almost completely straight. "Hello."

"We didn't know what to be callin' ye, so you're now officially John Smith of the Nagging Weasel Tavern—that'd be our home sweet home." She pulled the can out of his hand and threw it in the back; then she climbed back in and stretched out both hands to help him in.

"Abigail! First ye don't introduce yourself proper and then you make the boy sit in the bed?" Gloria scolded. "Damn shame; you're actin' like the Ellenton girl!"

Abigail rolled her eyes. He noticed they were the same shade of green as the new grass growth. "Ignore her; the family's bar's the Nagging Weasel for a reason." She said, helping him up. She shut the gate, and sat down with her back to the window of the cab. He squared his shoulders against hers, and she reached back, tapped the glass; Gloria took off without another moment's hesitation.

The ride was good; reminded the newly-christened John that he was, in deed, very much alive. "She always drives like this?" he asked, aware that his voice was not hers. He must not be from there.

Abigail shook her head. "She's taking it easy on you today Johnny-boy!" she shouted over the wind, laughing at the same time. "So how you feelin'? You were always out of it when we came by."

John shrugged. "I don't feel like a John. I'm not sure who I feel like."

"The doctor said it'd be a while before you get your memories back; in the mean time, I suggest you make some new ones. All that empty space in your head must be drivin' ye nuts."

John looked at the countryside whizzing by. "You have no idea…"

Three months had passed since John had resumed residence at the Nagging Weasel. He worked the gardens with Pete in the mornings, and helped Abigail tend bar in the evenings. Gloria was scarcely around anymore. John didn't doubt why; Abigail and Pete were always good, but some of the people in town still looked away when he came near, muttering under their breaths. Some of the old folks even made the sign against the evil eye at him. He still had the nightmares too, about being strapped to a roller coaster as he wound his way through Hell.

Abigail always crept into his room at night; he didn't think he screamed, but Abigail swore she could hear him thrashing around. John wondered if she loved him, if that was why she always knew when to be there. He loved her; that was for damn sure. He had loved her when he thought he was on the brink of death, and even seeing her first thing in the morning with her hair standing out in a fuzzy red ball and her eyes crossed and bleary didn't change that; hell, it had made it worse, because he knew that when a man thought a woman was beautiful, even first thing in the morning, it was L-U-V love.

Abigail had wound up in his bed even before the nightmare had reached its peak. "You're startin to moan." She whispered as she nudged him over and slid in beside him.

It took a few swallows, but John managed to salvage a supply. "You don't have to be here."

"You're right, I don't." she replied briskly. He loved how she was always sure to sound secure and slightly smug. "But you have the kind of nightmares I don't wish on people I hate. You shouldn't have to go through'em alone." She added softly.

On his side, with her back against his chest and his arms around her, John felt warm and safe; warmer still because she was blushing and she blushed all over. "Abby, would you be mad if I said I loved you?" he asked.

"Nope. I'd be surprised, but I wouldn't be mad."

"Why would you be surprised?"

"I dunno; maybe because I wouldn't be expecting it if you did." Suddenly Abigail sounded worried.

John pulled his arms tight, bringing her closer to him. "Then I'll be sure to warn you before I do it." He whispered, closing his eyes and letting his face fall into the nape of her neck.

Abigail lay awake that night, wondering just what the hell he was thinking. She was 19, without a standing arranged marriage to be dreading or even the prospect of a marriage of her choosing. It made her think that something was wrong with her, like maybe she wasn't pretty enough. Her mother told her it was her mouth that scared all the boys off; but Gloria had been the one to teach her to shoot off when it was necessary (or she just felt like it). Then she wondered if she could really truly love John; she had changed his bandages when he first arrived, had mostly forgotten about his scars…but occasionally someone in the bar would say something, and she would see John in just the right light as to scare her…what scared her worse was that she didn't know anything about him, nor he about himself. That was a lot of emotional baggage to be taking on…but good golly the boy was a good man…

The next day, the family horse decided to go into labor. Abigail pulled John to the barn to help her. "I've never done this before!" he protested.

"How do you know?" Abigail demanded, pushing back her shirt sleeves. "For all we know, you could be a damn horse trainer. Now shut up and get over here." She commanded.

John shook his head. He had a good gut feeling that he had never delivered a foal before; had never even done manual labor before. The muscle aches and pains he still had weren't just from ages of bed rest. He had worked before, but never this damn hard. Sometimes, when he slept; he dreamt of space and of fighting and of four shadowy figures that he felt he should know so well. "What do you want me to do?" he asked with a sigh.

"Don't puke, for one thing. This gets REALLY slimy." Abigail warned.

"At least she waited for before dinner instead of until after." John replied.

"Okay, she's breaching. Here's where it gets really nasty…" Abigail said.

Twenty minutes later, a black and white foal stood on shaky legs and nursed from the old brown mare.

"If Lightning's the father, I'm Queen of the World." Abigail declared, eyeing the foal.

John finished scrubbing his hands at the outdoor spigot. "You never know; genetics are something else." He said distractedly, wiping his hands on his jeans. The bulge in his pocket was starting to burn.

Abigail shrugged. "You did really well back there; I remember the first time I had to help birth a horse, I tossed my cookies, my salad, and the oatmeal I had eaten three days before." She turned back, and gave him a full smile.

John licked his lips. "Abby, I have something I need to ask you." His voice cracked; it jarred his nerves and really screwed up his initiative.

Abby turned fully towards him, cocking her head inquisitively. "What's wrong? Did you remember something?" her voice was cautiously eager.

John shook his head. "No…I um…ah…shit…" he scuffed the ground with one foot, sending a dirt clod flying. It hit the side of the house, and the stray that had been living under the house poked her head out to shoot him a nasty look. "I remember I used to be better at talking to people." He said, taking the box out of her pocket and shoving it in her hand.

Abigail raised an eyebrow, and fingered the box tentatively. "Before I open this, can I ask you why?"

John was busy staring at the sunset. He would have preferred to be staring at Abby, but he'd already lost so much nerve that to lose anymore would mean running away; the last thing he wanted to do. "Having warned you last night, I feel you are sufficiently prepared to hear that I love you and there's not another girl in the whole damn universe that I'd want to spend the rest of my unnatural life with." This being said, he finally managed to look at her.

Abby smiled softly, looking down at the jewelry box in her hand. Since the accident, John had called his life unnatural—always declaring that he really should have died that day; most of the doctors agreed with him and hadn't been able to figure out how he had managed to brave crashes, burns, avoid disease, and regain muscle control. The very secret part of her heart always said it was because he was meant for her and her alone. The box in her hand confirmed that sweet silly little thought. "You know if I say yes, it means the only way you can get out of this is death, right?"

John rolled his eyes. "Why must you ruin picture-perfect moments with that mouth of yours?"

"It's genetic. Mum does the same thing, in case you haven't noticed." Abigail pointed out glibly, though her heart swelled so much with love and happiness that she worried she was about to drop dead.

"It's not much." John said, meaning the ring. "I promise I'll get you a better one some day—" he started.

Abby shook her head, and handed the box back to him. "There's nothing better than that one." She whispered. "Now put it on me right; my hands are shaking and I know I'll drop it." She giggled even as the tears started trekking down her face.

John took her hand, slid the ring on (how much cheaper it looked on her hand! God, he was a miserable failure!) and pulled her close. He kissed the top of her head, and just held on for dear life.

Later that night, on the tiny bed in the backroom of the bar, they made love. It was slow and sweet, and just a little bit painful for both of them.

The next morning, everything got shot to hell. Not literally, thank goodness…but the almost-steady world that John had started to build crumbled faster than a General Development house on a fault line. It started with the young Japanese man that showed up at the door at 7:00 am that morning, and snow-balled from there.

John had been rudely jolted from a light doze by the sound of fists and feet pounding the door to the bar. Abigail had gotten to her feet first, and was limping towards the door. The sight made him ill; he hadn't wanted to hurt her, and thought he had done a good job of not doing so. "Abby dear, go back to bed." He whispered, grabbing her shoulder and turning her towards the bed.

"I'm not an old woman." She replied briskly. "But if it makes you feel better, you can open the door and I'll shoot." She teased.

John ignored her, and moved around her. He took the aluminum bat from behind the bar, and crossed to the door. He opened it cautiously, and peered out. "What can I help you with this morning?" he said, trying to cover the sound of Abby cocking the hammers on the shotgun.

The door was pulled from his hands as the young Japanese man stepped in. The young man gestured, and three more people piled in after him.

"Oh my god, Q-man, you live!" the youngest one crowed, his violet eyes shimmering with delight. His brown braid twitched like the tail of an excited cat. "You're alive!" he repeated, reaching out with both arms.

John took a step back, staring at him. "Who and what are you talking about?" he demanded.

The violet-eyed kid frowned. "Q-man—Quatre…don't you remember?" he asked.

John shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Please leave." He commanded.

Abigail came around him, steadying the shotgun. "You heard him; this is Colony IR3 74ND; I can shoot and not ask any questions."

John didn't like the way the Japanese man was eyeing the gun, or his fiancée. "State your business and get out." He said, moving around to block Abby and forcing her to lower the barrel. The tension in the room seemed to suddenly steal into his neck, and his head began to throb.

"We've come to take you home." The tallest man said, standing in the shadows. One luminescent green eye stared at him knowingly. "Back to the desert; back to Earth." He added softly.

John shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. My name is John Smith; I live HERE, with my FIANCEE." His jaw ached; he was grinding his teeth without thinking.

"Move John." Abby said quietly.

The Japanese man darted around John before he could blink; then the shotgun was skittering across the room, jamming as it hit the floor. He had one arm around Abby's throat and the other holding her arm back behind her.

"Big fuckin' mistake." She hissed, using her free hand to give his family jewels a sound scrub.

John gave the little man credit; he only flinched a little, but that was enough of an opening for Abby to get her hand free and turn to get a few punches into his jaw. Then the Japanese man became a whirlwind of flying feet and fists; it was enough that Abby was avoiding most of the hits.

"ENOUGH!" John bellowed, diving forward and catching a particularly stinging blow on the jaw. He dropped without another sound.

John woke up (what he assumed) two hours later in a hotel room. The four men were standing around, watching him with interest. Abigail was on the edge of the bed, crying. He shot up, ignoring the pain, the dizziness, and the black spots on his vision; reaching for her.

She moved away from him.

"Abby?"

"We told her everything." The Japanese man said.

"What the hell is everything? What did you do to my fiancée?" John demanded.

It was the Chinese man that spoke. "Abigail told us what happened to you; that your convoy was shot down and you somehow wound up here; that you spent a year in the hospital recovering, that you don't remember a thing about us."

"We're sorry Q-man, but we're here to take you back to your old life." The braided kid said. "Back to being Quatre Winner, our friend and former war buddy."

John stared at them blankly. "Who?"

"Quatre Winner—only one of the richest kids in the galaxy." Abigail told him with a sob. "Your family owns oil and pharmaceutical companies and farming and god only knows what else. You're not a poor laborer, you're a fuckin maharaja." She said bitterly.

He tried reaching for her again. She got up and moved to the door. "I don't care!" John shouted. "They can tell me I'm this Winner guy all they want; as far as I know, I'm John Smith, engaged to the beautiful Fiona Abigail Margaret O'Connell and damned if I'm giving that up!" he shouted.

"You don't have a choice." The Japanese man said.

"Yeah man; everyone back home was so happy when Hiiro found you. Your sisters are dying to see you; so are the Maquanacs." The braided kid added.

"What? Who?" John shook his head.

"Your sisters. All 29 of them." The tall man said. "And the Maquanacs—your loyal corps of desert men—your family."

John shook his head. "None of this is true; this is just a new nightmare coming to torment me instead of the old one." He declared. "None of this is true." He repeated.

The Japanese man threw a folder on the bed. Pictures and papers spilled out. "Here is your proof. Think what you will, but we are taking you back." He said menacingly.

"Not without my woman." John replied. "Not without my Abby and not without telling me the whole goddamn truth." He declared.

The Japanese man shrugged. "Fine." He grabbed Abby, and dragged her back to the bed where John was; he nearly got a black eye during the process. "It all started in AC 195…"

**Three Months Later…**

Quatre was sitting at his desk, pouring over nearly two years of paperwork. He still called himself John sometimes; in fact, a small part of him still was John. Abby was with him too; that made life bearable…even with 29 sisters, one of whom was being the utmost bitch.

"You can't marry her Quatre. She's a nice girl, a very sweet girl, but you are a Winner and she has absolutely no social standing whatsoever." Iria was saying as she took another drag of her cigarette.

Quatre was doing his best to ignore her. "This is not open for discussion." He replied dismissively.

Iria threw her hands up in frustration. "Do you not understand what you're doing to this family?" she screeched.

There was a timid knock at the door.

"Come in!"

"GET LOST!"

Quatre glared at Iria. "Come in!" he repeated.

Abby came shuffling in, face pinched and pale.

"Honey, are you feeling better?" he asked; she had been sick with the flu for the past few weeks, constantly in bed or over the bowl.

Abby looked to Iria, then back to Quatre. "I need to tell you something." She said softly.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's kind of private." She replied.

Iria rolled her eyes. "There's nothing you have to say that would shock me in the least. Please, share." She said spitefully.

Abby put a hand on her stomach, to try and stop the constant nauseating roll and to give her hand something to do other than break Iria's jaw. Ever since Quatre had brought her to Earth, Iria had been nothing short of evil. "Iria, it's really not your business right now." She said through clenched teeth.

Quatre jumped up and came around the desk. "What did the doctor say?" he asked, visions of cancer dancing across his eyes.

Abby looked at Iria one last time, then back to Quatre. "I'm pregnant." She said after a few moments of awkward silence. "The doctor said I'm having a tough time because it's my first."

Iria snorted.

Quatre shook his head. "What?"

"Just what we need; a second mouth to pay off." Iria said snidely.

"Look, I may be pregnant, but if you don't knock the bull shit down a few notches, I will have to kill you and put your body somewhere no one will find." Abby hissed.

Quatre put a hand to Abby's cheek, and looked her dead in the eye. "Pregnant?"

"First trimester's almost over." She said shyly. "I should be showing in another couple of weeks."

"And I thought you were just getting porkier." Iria replied.

Abby closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she pushed Quatre away, grabbed the crystal decanter off the serving tray nearby and broke it off. Then she headed for Iria…

It took six men to hold the little pregnant woman back. In the meantime, Iria fled the room. It took all six Maquanacs and Quatre to actually subdue Abby. She broke down in tears. "I can't take it anymore John! I can't take that sister of yours, talking down to me like I'm trash; and I don't want her near our baby because she'll do the same thing! I don't want to make you choose between me and her because it's not fair but I can't take it anymore!" she wailed. Then she sank to her knees and keeled over.

"Abby?" Quatre shook her. "Abby? ABBY!" he gathered her into his arms and ran out to find the doctor…

It was stress, the doctor said, that was making her ill. It would be best to send her away until the pregnancy is over, he said. Quatre didn't want to hear that. He sought out Iria to tell her to back her bags and get the hell out. He searched the grounds high and low; in the meantime, Iria was having Abby and her things packed up and shipped off. Abby tried to fight of course, but the sedative the doctor had prescribed (never mind the fact she was pregnant) made her weak, so very weak…

Quatre hasn't seen Abby or Iria nearly six months. The baby's due soon and he's out of his mind to find Abby before the baby's born. Hiiro's working around the clock trying to find them, but it's even harder to find Abby than it was to find Quatre. Quatre's losing hope, and fast…

**The End**

**(Don't worry. There's a sequel; we can happy-up the ending.)**


End file.
